Dark Imperium Page 13

  Guilliman made a mental note to adjust his thinking. He was falling into dangerous patterns.

  Mathieu was not a bullet-headed rabble rouser, nor a sickly, black-toothed extremist. Nor was he an aged primate, thick with the brocade of office and the dust of inactivity. An air of peaceful placidity radiated from him, and though Guilliman had also encountered this before, Mathieu’s was without the accompanying self-satisfaction that invariably suffused men of faith. His movements suggested a man used to fighting.

  A red rope belt cinched his waist. On one side was a simple pouch purse, on the other a battered leather holster for a long-barrelled laspistol. The gun had been taken from him. Felix’s diligence amused Guilliman. The priest posed no threat to him whatsoever.

  A servo-skull trailed behind Mathieu at head height, as modest as its owner. A large ‘HV’ was engraved into its forehead, but otherwise it was unadorned. The motor cowling, manipulators and the frame for the single sensor were plain plasteel, and there was no plating of precious metals upon the bone.

  Mathieu approached confidently, without outward signs of pious joy at being so close to a son of the Emperor. He did not quake or sing, or burst into tears. He was not afraid. He smiled instead, with an edge of sly humour Guilliman instantly liked. It was a smile that acknowledged the uncomfortableness of the situation, and the uneven power dynamic. It was a smile that said its wearer understood those things, and found them amusing.

  The priest stopped before Guilliman on a wide rug. Spreading his arms wide, he bowed low.

  ‘My lord Roboute Guilliman,’ he said. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

  The priest’s long sleeves brushing the carpet softly.

  ‘Please, Frater Mathieu, sit.’ Guilliman gestured to a stool built for mortals tucked away under a table. Guilliman had balanced a pile of books on it. Mathieu removed them, and they both sat, Guilliman in his over-sized chair, Mathieu on his stool like a child at a scholum before the master. ‘Do you know why I have called you here?’

  Mathieu nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then say why.’

  Mathieu pursed his lips, raised one knee and clasped his hands around it. ‘It sounds like arrogance when voiced, but to borrow the parlance of your sons, it is the only practical that fits the theoretical. However, I fear I am being tested, and am wary of looking foolish.’

  Guilliman liked the man’s honesty and nodded in open approval. ‘Nothing will happen to you if you are wrong. I am not in the habit of immolating people I disagree with.’ A wildly undiplomatic statement, but calculated. If the priest was to serve him, he must accede to Guilliman’s thoughts and beliefs. Too many in the Adeptus Ministorum reacted badly at any indictment of their practises.

  Mathieu ignored the comment but paused for thought before speaking.

  Good, thought Guilliman.

  ‘Militant-Apostolic Geesan is dead of old age,’ said Mathieu, ‘shortly before the glorious victory at Raukos. You seek a new militant-apostolic for your crusade. The Adeptus Ministorum would appoint one itself if you allowed it, but you always recruit your own, and often from the lower ranks of the priesthood, though not usually so lowly as mine. To give me this appointment as your holy mouthpiece is the only reason I can think of for you to call me here, unless I have offended you personally in some way and you wish to punish me. Forgive me if I have, but I do not think that is so. Nor do I think you have called me here to gather intelligence.’

  ‘Mouthpiece?’ said Guilliman.

  Mathieu nodded. ‘A tool in priestly garb. That is what the office of militant-apostolic is. I have heard it said you do not hold the Emperor as a god. You require someone to allay the fears this belief will raise. Therefore, a mouthpiece – a priest to reassure the masses that you are not a terrible heretic.’

  Mathieu smiled again.

  Guilliman made a noise in his throat. ‘I need free-willed men to serve me, not mouthpieces. But that aside, you are correct.’ He plucked up a large sheet of illuminated vellum. ‘Your certification of office.’

  Mathieu raised an eyebrow. His raised leg thumped to the floor, and he scratched the back of his head.

  ‘That’s it? No ceremony?’

  ‘Not today, no,’ said Guilliman. ‘I will of course formally invest you soon, but I need you to begin work now.’

  Mathieu did not take the vellum. ‘This is a great honour.’

  ‘It is,’ said Guilliman. ‘You do not take the certification.’

  ‘I am not sure I am worthy. I must be careful before I accept. Perhaps I should not accept.’

  Guilliman shrugged his mountainous shoulders. ‘You are wise to hesitate.’ He put the sheet aside. ‘You have questions. Ask them. You are entitled to.’

  ‘I was afraid questions would be unwelcome.’

  ‘I make my methods and tempers well known. Am I such a stranger to my own people?’

  ‘You are surrounded by legend, my lord.’ Mathieu looked about the room, craning his neck to take in the shelves curving around the room’s shaft. ‘What is it, exactly, that you are doing here, my lord?’

  Guilliman followed the priest’s gaze around the high stacks. ‘Knowledge is power, and my own is lacking. I have a great deal to understand before I can begin to rebuild the Imperium. To that end, I am collecting as many histories of as many worlds as I can. I will use them to model the last ten millennia so that I might study it, and from it make a true history, the like of which has not been written for thousands of years. By doing so, I will understand what went wrong with my father’s plans, and be able to formulate a correction.’

  ‘You speak plainly.’

  ‘Nothing is gained through obfuscation,’ said Guilliman. ‘Time is short. Why would I lie?’

  ‘I see.’ Mathieu paused again. ‘I beg your pardon for my impertinence, my lord–’

  ‘You are aware enough to recognise impertinence, yet still you proceed,’ interrupted Guilliman testily. ‘Ask me, or do not. There can be no secrets between you and I if you are to serve me effectively.’

  ‘My apologies,’ the priest said smoothly. Frater Mathieu’s peaceful face showed the barest sign of strain, a tick under one eye.

  Guilliman noticed it. Irritated with himself for putting the man on edge, he leaned back in his chair, adopting a remarkably human posture for one so inhuman. He folded his hands in his lap.

  ‘Let us start anew,’ Guilliman said. ‘It is I who should apologise. A man may hold a different point of view to another. It is no excuse for ill manners. Once, I was more even-tempered. But now…’ Guilliman trailed off, his eyes straying over the mounded remains of ten millennia of history. ‘Things are not what they were. I am not who I was. I am pressed on all sides. I let my temper get the better of me. It is late, and there is so much to do.’ He shook his head and attempted to smile. ‘Please, priest, your impertinence – voice it openly.’

  Frater Mathieu relaxed, a change in posture imperceptible to a normal man, but clear to the primarch. The flicker of a decision being made passed over his face. Again, the priest considered his next words carefully.

  ‘There is an element of hypocrisy to your activities, my lord. You ordered the doors to the Library of Ptolemy on Macragge barred, pronouncing the time of learning done, but here you devote yourself to the pursuit of history.’

  Guilliman made a reasonable face, conceding the point. ‘I stand by my actions. One day, those doors will be unbarred. What I did there was symbolic. Who even in my own realm read and understood what the library contained? I sealed the doors not against the truth, but against the superstition that has taken truth’s place.’

  Though there was, of course, that one book that told a history he would rather no one read just now. He could not afford the shadow of the second Imperium to hang over his latest ventures, so this he did not mention.

  ‘All eyes must be on the future,’
Guilliman continued. ‘One version of the past is in that library, another is in the heads of men. The closing of the doors was symbolic, but powerful. It seals both versions of the future away for now. I prepare, Mathieu. When this crisis is passed, perhaps something of my father’s dream might be realised, though we have a long way to climb. If we are lucky, when I reopen the doors to the Library of Ptolemy, those who enter in might finally understand what they read.’

  The primarch sighed. ‘I will be honest with you, so listen. You are privy to matters I do not readily share. I see that in the period following the Great Heresy War I was too focused upon the reformation of the Legions, trusting to the council my father created to govern wisely. My optimism was misguided. This terrible future I find myself in is my fault as much as anyone else’s. Now I have concluded my revisions of the Codex Astartes, I have begun work upon a new book. This book I shall call the Codex Imperialis. In it I shall set down the principles of good governance long denied our species. Compiling an accurate history is only the start of the process.’

  ‘You do this while conducting this war?’ said Mathieu in disbelief.

  ‘I have few of the powers your priesthood ascribes to me, Mathieu, but I do have other abilities. I was made to accomplish many goals at once.’

  ‘Truly the Emperor was wise in creating one such as you.’ The unwelcome taint of awe stole into the priest’s face.

  ‘Not as wise as you think,’ said Guilliman, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘I was one of twenty. Two failed. Half the rest turned on my father. The Emperor is not infallible, nor am I.’ A blasphemy intended to provoke the priest. A cheap tactic. Mathieu was thankfully unmoved.

  ‘Yes,’ Mathieu smiled serenely. ‘But in your holiness, you did not turn.’

  ‘I am not holy,’ said Guilliman. ‘Worship the Emperor, if you must, but I am not deserving of your praise, nor will I accept it.’

  ‘I have heard some of your beliefs,’ said Mathieu. ‘When first awoken, you insisted upon something called the Imperial Truth?’

  Guilliman looked away, irritated, reminded of old lies. He had been rash to voice his objections to the Ecclesiarchy in those early days after his awakening. It had taken him time to recover the full measure of his wits, and he had been alarmed by what he found.

  His feelings on the Imperial Truth remained conflicted. He had not forgiven the Emperor for hiding the true nature of the warp from them all. He did not know if he ever could. That one great lie undermined everything else his father had said. If He had not lied, then history might have been very different.

  Theoretical, thought Guilliman, slipping into Macraggian dialectic problem solving. What if He was lying about more than the gods of the warp?

  Once, he would never have entertained such thoughts. This living hell had challenged everything he had believed.

  ‘A modified version of it, yes,’ he said. ‘Reason still has a place amid all this madness.’

  ‘Some may disagree with that,’ said Mathieu amicably. His eyes glinted shrewdly. ‘As I understand it, my lord, this truth denies not only your divinity, but that of your father.’

  ‘The Emperor denied His own divinity,’ said Guilliman flatly.

  The priest shrugged. Guilliman had seen the look on the priest’s face too many times on other holy men. It was the look of the blindly faithful.

  If the Emperor Himself stood up, thought Guilliman, came down off His golden throne and proclaimed ‘I am not a god!’ then they would burn Him as a heretic.

  Mathieu exhibited few signs of fanaticism, but the primarch would give it time. The more serene the priest on the outside, the deeper his faith was on the inside, and the deeper the faith, the hotter the righteous fires he might cast you into. There was a balance of humours Guilliman required. His militant-apostolic needed some of that zeal.

  But be careful there is not too much fire, Roboute, he chided himself, or you will be burnt yourself.

  ‘If you do not hold with the teachings of our glorious church,’ said Mathieu ‘then why did you treat with us at all?’

  ‘Because the Adeptus Ministorum has power, and though it has used that power unwisely on occasion, once the balance sheet is reckoned, I see it is and has been a force for good.’ Guilliman looked the priest squarely in the eyes. The priest tried and failed to return his gaze. ‘I need the Adeptus Ministorum. I need their support. The turning of the galaxy depends on their approval, though I may wish it were not so…’ He paused. ‘I intend to end the Indomitus Crusade and divide the fleet, frater, and I would have the blessing of the Ecclesiarchy – both for my men’s morale, and to present a united front to those who would sow division within the Imperium.’

  ‘You do not need to ask for the Adeptus Ministorum’s blessing, my lord. Any of my peers, any cardinal or episcope, would have leapt at the chance to proclaim your divine will.’

  ‘I suppose I do not need to ask,’ said Guilliman, reaching for a slender, leather-bound volume. ‘But if I do, then in time you will see me for what I am, and not what you believe me to be. A god has no need for manners. There are other factors.’

  Guilliman held out the book.

  ‘Let us leave your certification for now, if you wish, but take these notes of mine. These are the topics I would like the blessing to cover. You claim to represent the Emperor’s word. You are better placed to speak His will and obey my orders, and resolve neatly any contradictions there might be between the twain. A delicate time lies ahead. I cannot rule by diktat alone. Every institution does as I ask, for I am the Imperial Regent. I am the Emperor’s living agent. But I am no tyrant, and I will not become one. I will have all the Imperium at my back willingly, or we will fail. I cannot become my brother Horus.’

  ‘Nobody said you were a usurper, my lord,’ said the priest, and took the slim book from the primarch’s hands. His fingers shook. In terms of paper and leather, it weighed hardly anything, but there was responsibility there enough to crush a horde of saints.

  ‘The most dangerous thoughts go unsaid,’ said Guilliman. ‘Many think it.’

  He turned back to his datasplays and hololiths,. The conversation was over, but the priest remained. A moment later, Guilliman looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Still here, priest?’

  ‘I have one more question, if you might indulge me,’ said Mathieu.

  Guilliman picked up a stylus and began marking a data-slate, where a list of new finds for his library glowed greenly. He began ticking off the books he desired to see soonest. ‘You want to know why I chose you. Why not a cardinal, or the Ecclesiarch himself? It is only natural.’

  The priest nodded. ‘I am the lowliest sort of priest, my lord,’ Mathieu said. ‘Even in the Missionara Galactica, I am beneath notice. My ministry is with the poor, and the sick. It carries no prestige and not a little disdain. I have never craved power or influence. I simply desire to do your father’s work. That is reward enough for me.’

  ‘Well said. That is exactly why I have chosen you, and not some princely demi-pope. You care. You fight alongside my armies, and you care for the meanest serf.’ Guilliman’s noble face became more solemn. ‘And I have heard your sermons.’

  ‘You have?’ said Mathieu. He was surprised and honoured, but still he did not fall to his knees and start wailing. Guilliman was satisfied he had chosen well.

  ‘Take the book. My equerry shall present you with my seal and your identification as militant-apostolic. As far as I am concerned, you are he. We shall treat it as a temporary appointment, if you like. You have one week to decide whether or not you will take the post permanently. Nevertheless, I would like you to do this one service for me. Write the sermon for the triumph I am planning, and deliver it.’

  ‘Are you commanding me?’

  ‘I am asking you. You do not have to do it.’

  Guilliman looked searchingly at the priest. Math
ieu gripped the book.

  ‘Good,’ said the primarch. ‘Now go – anything you require will be made available to you.’

  ‘You could deliver the words yourself, my lord.’

  ‘I shall be honest with you, Frater Mathieu.’ Guilliman rested his hand on a pile of files, all in rough binders marked with the barred ‘I’ of the Inquisition. ‘I have looked carefully at many possible candidates for this office. I chose you as all the intelligence I have on your life suggests you are an honest man, fervent but reasonable, kind yet bold. As you said, you help the needy, and you have no ambition other than to do good. As far as I can tell. I have been wrong before.’

  ‘I have my own work.’

  ‘And I have greater for you,’ said Guilliman. He lowered his voice, and looked out through the cloisters to the floating wrack of void combat. ‘If I say I am not a god, I damn myself in the eyes of my father’s worshippers. If I say I am, I damn myself again in the eyes of those who are suspicious of me. Not every man regards my return as fortuitous. Some suspect fell powers at work. I have my detractors. I require someone who can handle the Adeptus Ministorum gently. Most dangerous of all to me is to have a man in this position of a worshipful character. I need someone who can get things done, who will not go into paroxysms whenever I speak, and one who will question what I say should it need questioning. In short, I need someone who can see the man behind the god.

  ‘You came to me freely. You have not cast yourself upon your knees. You may be surprised to learn that you are one of the very few members of your organisation that I have been able to hold a proper conversation with. In the first few minutes of our exchange, you called me a hypocrite. The fundamental of it is, you are not overawed. You are therefore perfect for the role. You may not believe in me completely. I see that as an advantage.’

  The priest hugged the book close to his chest like it were a precious child. ‘I believe in you, my lord.’

  ‘Because you have faith, priest?’ said Guilliman, and this time he could not mask his feelings.